The moment the red dot bloomed on his chest, Andrew didn't panic.
He'd been trained not to.
Years of working in the shadows — wet work, black ops, assassinations that never made the news — had burned fear out of him, leaving only cold calculation. He could read angles, measure wind, and gauge distance in a heartbeat.
But no matter how fast the mind works, no one outruns a bullet they never see coming.
The crowd around him bustled, oblivious to the predator watching from a distant perch. He could almost feel the sniper's finger tightening on the trigger. Far above, a faint glint of glass caught the sun — there, and gone.
Two seconds. That was all he had.
His hand twitched toward his jacket — instinct, not strategy. A suppressed pop cut through the city's noise.
The impact slammed into him like a sledgehammer, driving the air from his lungs. Pain erupted, sharp and burning, spreading from his ribs in every direction. He staggered into a stranger's shoulder. Someone cursed at him — still unaware that a man had just been shot in broad daylight.
His vision dimmed. The honking cars, the chatter, the hum of the city — all faded. Warmth pooled in his chest. Too much, too fast. The copper tang of blood touched his tongue.
So… this is it.
Not regret for dying — but for never living. No home. No family. Only missions, targets, and orders.
The world tilted.
And then — nothing.
When sensation returned, it wasn't to pain.
It was warmth.
A soft, almost suffocating warmth.
His eyes opened to a ceiling he'd never seen — dark mahogany beams polished to a gleam, sunlight filtering through crimson curtains embroidered with gold. The air smelled faintly of lavender and the dry musk of old books.
Andrew's hand shot to his chest. No wound. No blood. His breathing steady. His hands — smaller, smoother, unscarred — clutched unfamiliar silk sheets.
He sat up. The bed beneath him was vast, stitched with a crest of two crossed swords beneath a silver wolf's head. The walls were lined with weapons — not firearms, but blades. Longswords etched with runes, ornate spears, a massive claymore mounted above the fireplace. They weren't mere decoration. They were history. Legacy.
The heavy door slammed open.
"Young master Andrew!"
A boy, perhaps fifteen, in servant's livery burst in, hair damp with sweat, chest heaving as though he'd sprinted the length of the estate. "The Duke is furious! You skipped sword practice again! If your father finds out—"
The boy froze. "Wait… you're… awake?"
The Duke. Sword practice. The pieces clicked.
Andrew turned toward a tall mirror.
The reflection staring back was not his own.
Gone was the weathered man in his thirties, with scars and haunted eyes. In his place stood a youth — fifteen at most — with messy black hair that caught the light in faint blue, steel-gray eyes, and features far too refined for the life Andrew had known.
Then the memories hit.
An estate sprawling over green fields. Two older brothers — one a swordsman celebrated in the capital, the other a prodigy weaving magic into steel. And their father… Duke Reynard Valerius, a man whose presence could silence an entire hall.
And the third son.
Weak. Sickly. Overlooked.
So… that's me now.
A smirk curved his lips. Reincarnation — something he'd once scoffed at — was now his reality. Not as a peasant. Not as a soldier. But as a Duke's son.
And beneath his skin… something stirred. Like static. Mana.
"Third son of a Duke, huh?" His voice was low, thoughtful. "Let's see what I can make of that."
He rose from the bed, bare feet sinking into thick crimson carpet. The servant still stood frozen, unsure whether to run or speak.
Andrew ignored him. His gaze locked on a sword mounted on the wall.
He crossed the room, fingers curling around the hilt. Hefted it. The balance was flawless. The steel hummed faintly with magic.
And for the first time in either life, he felt something new take root inside him.
Not duty.
Not obedience.
Ambition.
"This time," he murmured, "I won't just survive."
He gripped the blade tighter, eyes sharp as steel.
"I'll rise."